The Troublesome Trio
by Gaia'schild
Summary: When Dr. Watson left Holmes he started a family. A series of short one-shots from their lives as the family grows through all the humor, sickness, mystery, and general trouble that Holmes, Watson, and a small girl could get into.
1. In Search of Cookies

The Troublesome Trio

Chapter 1

"Holmes, I am begging you, please. Just for tonight. And it's hardly any different from when you care for her during the day. Please, remain here at Baker Street and work on a wonderfully complex but safe case—no experiments or drugs. I beg you."

Watson was standing outside of Holmes' rooms at 221B Baker Street with a tiny two year old girl at his side holding one hand and a small carpet bag in other, arguing with the renter of said rooms.

"Watson, taking in your child at night is completely different; she might wake up disoriented and cry, or wet the bed, or any number of foul childish behaviour. No, I will not. And that is my final word on the subject."

The man on the step glanced back at the carriage that was waiting to take him to a formal dinner for some of the doctors in London, before making a quick prayer to God that this plan would not back fire on him. "If you take her now, I will go, without complaint, with you on your next mission-"

"Done," chirped Holmes before Watson could finish his sentence. "In fact I am in the midst of a very interesting case right now involving a circus tight walker and a magician…"

"Very nice Holmes, now remember to just work on only that case and, I really must be going."

And as Watson ran for his carriage, Holmes turned to face his charge.

"Now. What am I going to with a child like you who has an infamous history for misbehaving and exploring things she ought not to?" Holmes asked of the two year old, raising an eyebrow, as they stood in the entry way.

The young girl looked up at the man with eyes that would stop raging herds of natives and simply said, "Ask Nanny for cookies? Please Unc' Sherlock?

Holmes laughed as he picked up his only niece and off the pair went in search of cookies.


	2. The Froggy Truth

The Troublesome Trio

Chapter 2

"Uncle Sherlock, Uncle Sherlock, Uncle Sherlock, you just must see what I got. It's all slimy and grossy and Jeremy bet me a whole sticky bun that I wouldna kiss it but I did."

The small bundle of energy had raced its way up the steps and into Holmes's sitting room, disturbing the poor man and thereby ruining the experiment he had spent all morning and afternoon working on. Poof went a day's work just an Eleanor Maxine Watson, with something in her hands, bounced into his leg. Reigning in his anger, Holmes turned downward to face the diminutive bundle of…mud.

What had once been clean but sturdy play clothes were now ripped and coated in more mud than he could have thought a respectable girl could find, or that even _she_ could find. Her lace collar was missing in some places and barely holding on in most, while her left sleeve seemed to have some difficulty staying attached to the rest of the dress. The large mismatched pockets that Holmes had helped her sew into her clothes to hold trinkets were missing. In fact, she vaguely resembled Watson and himself during a case down to the blood still trickling from the scrapes on her knee. In short, Miss Watson was a mess. How on Earth did she ever make it past Nanny?

"I brought you a present Uncle Sherlock, and I'ts something you're gonna like 'cause I caught it all by myself!" The child beamed up at the detective as if expecting some sort of praise or reward. He just wanted to send her for a bath.

It appeared he waited a smidgeon too long to reply to his niece because her smile began to falter slightly.

"Do you want to see it Uncle?"

Putting on his signature smile that he tended to reserve for Eleanor these days, he brushed a few newspapers onto a cleared part of the table before plopping one very dirty little girl on them before sitting down on a stool himself.

"Now that the stage has been suitably set I insist that you inform me of this momentous discovery so I may endeavour to share it with my peers as soon as I am physically able to. I am nothing but ears for with you _hear_ your story." At this last remark he cupped his hands to make what Dr Watson called 'elephant ears.'

"Uncle," the girl giggled from her perch, spraying the pre-placed newspapers with muddy water. "Behave Uncle or I will give it to Daddy."

Folding his hands together he begged, "Please little dearest Eleanor, sorry, Max," he corrected at Max's disapproving stare, "Show me your marvellous wonder."

Giving off a grin that showed off her missing front tooth she opened her cupped hands, showing off her hard sought prize.

It was a frog. Not just any frog mused Holmes but the ugliest and muddiest he had seen in all his years—even with a misspent youth.

Forgoing and ignoring the rational part of his mind that was categorizing what type of frog it was, where she must have caught it, and any harm it might cause, he asked the young girl the most obvious question of them all. "So then Max, what is his name?"

"_Her _name is Gladice, and she can be Gladstone's best friend while you do 'speriments. It's perfect!"

And Holmes, seeing the joy and accomplishment on her face, decided the mud and frog guts would be worth it.

"Well then, I think the first experiment I shall preform this afternoon will be if a girl still exists beneath this layer of muck and mud, and if she does will she be ready in time for a dinner of vegetables after missing lunch?" Holmes smiled as he pulled the loudly protesting child to him and carried her to his bath; his clothes would be washed by the sprayed bath water anyway.

~:~

"What did you do today at Uncle's, darling?"

"I caught a frog then I had to get a bath and it took forever Daddy!"

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to the following people: Wolfy McBubblehorn, WriterMonkey0626 Ryuko, goldfish-eyes, Fantasy's-Priestess, Irene Holmes,and XxMissAmeXx.

I will try to get updates going out every day, but I have one word for you—life. That being sai,d enjoy this for now.


	3. A Visit from St Holmes

The Troublesome Trio

Chapter 3

"And I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight, Happy Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night!"

And with that Watson closed the poem book that Mary had always meant for their Ella to read. Being a governess had expanded her knowledge of literature to the point of dreaming of having a library. Those dreams would be no more. This was to the first of many Christmases as just the two of them; just him and a three year old Eleanor who still occasionally asked where her Mummy was.

It just wasn't fair.

"Dada."

Watson looked back down at the small bundle in green flannel and lace curled up in his lap with a soft rag doll from Holmes, a late birthday present.

"Mama's not coming home."

"No honey. She's not. She's gone."

Ella promptly wrapped her stubby arms around her Dada and snuggled into his neck, kneeling on his good knee thankfully.

"It's good Dada, I got you. I love you."

A knock at the door interrupted their touching family moment. Watson, confused at who it might be on Christmas Eve since most of his patients seemed reasonably healthy when he saw them last, placed Ella on the chair as he stood up.

"Stay here a moment, dear, while Dada sees who is at the door."

Opening the door, he realized that he should have known who it was at the first knock—Holmes stood on the top step with two bags and a horribly wrapped box, hunched over against the wind that was whistling down the street. He opened the door even more as an invitation and stepped back; Holmes quickly stepped into the offered warm area and shut out the bluster behind him.

With a meek smile so unlike the fiery detective, Holmes greeted the doctor, "Happy Christmas Watson. Is Max-I mean Eleanor still awake? I have something small for her, something I wished to give her before bedtime. If not it can, of course wait…"

Watson turned to see where Holme's eyes had been captured and caused his silence. Ella had followed him, she had defiantly inherited his curiosity, and was now standing in the hallway behind him. There was the remnant of a tear still trickling down her face but her it was split into a large toothy grin all the same.

"Dada! We got Unc' Sher! We got Unc' Sher too!" She raced to her uncle and grabbed the only part of him she could reach and hugged it, his leg.

Holmes turned his head to Watson with his eyebrow cocked, "I'm afraid I follow your daughter's logic less than usual. You_ have_ me?"

"She seems to have finally have come to terms wiht the recent loss of Mary and—and Isaac. But it appears to be made better by the fact that we are still here." Watson then proceeded to look everywhere but at Holmes, not wanting an analysis of his child's psychological well-being.

"I think then old boy," Holmes began in a quiet voice behind him, "that your daughter is very wise, fair wiser that I ever was at that age, to see how amazing of a father she has." He paused to let the idea settle into his friend's mind before changing topics completely.

"Why don't we all go up to Ella's room and read a story and then I shall complete my Pere Noël-ing of tonight. What do you say Watson?"

Not waiting for a reply, he grabbed Ella, pulled her to his hip and made his way to the stairs yelling as he went, "Don't forget to bring that Christmas book you two were reading!"

As Watson grabbed the illustrated poem from his chair he realized that Ella was correct, they wouldn't be spending any Christmases alone. They had Uncle Sherlock with them, and together they would be a family.

A/N: The poem is the famous "Twas the Night Before Christmas" which was published in 1823 so would have been widely available by whenever this story is taking place. Have yet to fully iron out that minor little insignificant detail –cough, cough-. Any hoo. I figure that now would be a good time to point out that I plan on sticking to the original book's idea that Mary dies; I must confess that I enjoyed her character at the end of _A Game of Shadows_, but not enough. I want cute Holmes/Watson/small girl moments. Hence me writing this. Sorry for rambling, go on with your own lives.


	4. Here there be Dragons

"But they are real Uncle Sherlock! Mista Townsen the Baker has one looked up in his oven to make the fires and keep the bread hot. Oderwise Nanny would hafta keep one downstairs in her kitchen. But I don't think it and Gladstone would be friends at all, it would want to play far too much and Gladstone is too old, at least that's what Papa says to me all the time, so it would hafta leave anyway and that would mean we wouldna get any bread or pies or cookies Uncle Sherlock-"

"Breath Max."

"So we would hafta eat Brussels sprouts and lima beans so you and me would hafta starve Uncle 'cause you canna eat them so I wouldn't cause we partners gotta stick together don't we? I mean you and Papa always go on missions together even when Nanny gets mad and looks at you like Papa looks at me when I know I've done something wrong but he can't do anything about it right then, like when we were at the fish market and I told that man that his pink cravat was stained awfully, so we would eat Gladstone's nasty mush and he would hafta eat rats so it's best if the dragon just stays at the Baker's and makes the bread there because to me it's the best part of the day. How about tomorrow you come with me tomorrow and Nanny stays home that way you can smell the wonderfulness of Mista Townsen's Bakery! It's great Uncle Sherlock! There are amazing things that you just must try!"

Holmes just laid back in his chair and starred at his niece who he swore could draw conclusions on far less than he could, and often on nothing more than fairy tales and half-seen shadows. It was just a delight to occasionally see the world from the perspective of a child, at least one that remained innocent and bright at heart—his Irregulars truly did not count in this field.

He could tell that his afternoon would not be useful at all until Max had rid herself of this foolish nonsense of dragons being alive, let alone hiding in ovens and cooking human food. So he did what any sensible adult would do in his situation

"So Max, have you by chance observed what colour this dragon is inside of Mister Townsen's ovens?"


	5. Salutations to Stupid

The Troublesome Trio

Chapter Five

"I brought you a pretty red flower because Papa says you like red the most, but he wasn't smiling nicely when he said that. But I stole it from Nanny's garden box anyway, so you have to promise to keep it a secret Uncle, but that won't be hard 'cause you are the best secret keeper I know. Not that it matters. I doubt Nanny will notice one flower missing. Or, well, you know, mind if she knew, well, where it was going."

Max sighed as she looked up at her father as he came into the hospital room with her uncle's doctor behind him. She just wanted to take Uncle Sherlock away from these stupid doctors who took away uncle's favourite jacket and left in in this stupid white gown with stupid little blue lines in this silly bed with these crisp clean sheets that didn't smell right. This whole thing was just wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong! And even her eight year old mind could work out that Uncle would recover much faster at home in the comfort of his own messy jam stained bed instead of here with these stupide silly doctors. They had even taken away Uncle's pipe from the bedside table when she had placed it there upon her arrival! How was Uncle supposed to smoke his morning smoke to get better?

The worst part, Max decided as she watched her father and the doctor exchange papers, was the smell of the hospital. At home in Uncle's sitting room and even his bedroom, it always smelled like experiments and an assortment of other 'noxious fumes not meant for young respiratory systems,' as Papa would say but that always smelled like home, especially since they had finally moved in with Uncle, or moved back in as the cause of Papa. She was sure they could do a much better job of taking care of Uncle then these doctors cause Papa was the best doctor in all of London proper and she was his special little helper—together they could do anything!

Papa turned away from the silly doctor and came to sit down by Uncle's bedside, pulling her across his lap like he does they go riding together, but usually she goes with Uncle to save Papa's knee. "It seems," he began in his 'calm doctor voice' as her partner would say, "that Dr Douber believes that Uncle Sherlock is healthy enough to be moved back to Baker Street under our constant supervision. How does that sound darling? Do you think that you can once again be my special helper and make sure that he takes his medication on time and stays in bed? If not, I'm afraid he may have to remain here where he can receive the best medical can outside of us. Are you prepared Eleanor?"

"John, really," began the other doctor, "I'm afraid I don't understand. You plan on letting your daughter, your six year old daughter I might add, help you with the must unruly patient that I have ever had to treat?"

Her father never stopped looking at her face and holding her hand as he replied back to the stupidest of all stupid doctors, nor did he raise his voice at all. It was like they were talking about the weather.

"Yes, I do plan on letting my daughter help me treat my patient, a man I consider to be my brother in all but blood, and who considers himself to be the uncle of said eight year old girl who has been assisting me in this manner for years now and is quite accustomed to fetching for me water and my bag or whatever else I ask of her. In fact I plan to use the fact that she is related to the patient in order to provide him with a comforting atmosphere and the reasoning to stay in bed. If you had any children you would know that it is impossible to argue with a stubborn child, especially a girl, at any age. Holmes will be made the better because Eleanor is there, reading him stories and forcing him to read her science journal and finger paint and whatever else she decides. But that is neither in the here nor the there, other than yes, my daughter will be aiding me medically. "

"Now, Eleanor. How does that sound?"

Aware of the other doctor's wide-eyed stare and the praise that her Papa just gave her, Max felt like there really was only one answer to give. And as much as she wanted to help her Uncle, she just really hated being backed into a corner and being forced to give a particular answer.

Laying on her proper school girl charm she replied, "That sounds wonderful father. Should I go ring Nanny and ask her to prepare his rooms?" She could see her father desperately try to repress a smile by wiping his growing moustache.

"Let us surprise her shall we Eleanor, that way she can put her mothering technique to good use on poor old Holmes," he winked back at her.

Max was left sitting there with nothing to do but stare at the ever blank hospital wall as her father once again stepped out into the hall with Dr Douber, or Dr Doubter, as she nicknamed him in her head. She would have to remember to let Uncle now the moment he was awake enough to informed of what was happening, which meant the instant he woke up. Updating the tally of 'Funny Things That Happened While Uncle Was Sleeping,' Max realized that the scored was Fatehr-10, Max-3. This week was not going well at all.

Leaning down t her Uncle's ear, she whispered, "You simply must get better soon partner, or else Papa will be able to prove once and for all that he truly is a funny man. And that is something that we simply cannot allow." She could perfectly image him cracking open an eye lid and whispering back, 'No we cannot.' And so Max laughed until her father came back in to see what the fuss was all about.

**A/N:**

WOOOOOOAAAHHH! Did this chapter get away from me or what! Did had at one point fit on the back of a piece of paper folded into thirds, but somehow when I came back from a walk my fingers kind of produced this longer than expected piece. No complaints here! Writing a defensiveDaddy Watson is so fun, but writing from an eight year old's perspective is just _hard_. Just don't see too many of them. Hope it's okay! Let me know if there are any grammar or spelling errors. **And if you think of a better Chapter Name let me know.**


	6. Piercing Shrill

The Troublesome Trio

Chapter Six

**A/N**: This is most likely the longest one-shot I will post for this series, and you will see why.

Discordant chords and descant melodies haunted the dreary, dusty rooms, until his dark mood could no longer be portrayed by those eerie tones alone, until the haze of morose overcame him. He could not even fully divulge in the joy that was cocaine, not with the happy couple and that _thing_ in this house. Not a moment's peace with that foul noise maker that failed to stop its insistent howling and crying. Watson had promised that the intrusion would only last a mere two hours but half a day had gone and Mrs. Hudson and Mary were still gossiping about poison or some sort of devious plots but _they were not shutting the child up, why not?_

His mind made up, Holmes made his way to his bedroom to his Morocco case hidden safe from prying eyes, notably Watson's, beneath his stained bed. A smaller dose would be safe; one third of this usual concoction would allow him to maintain an air of normalcy if that woman or Nanny investigated, or rather intruded upon, his private sanctuary. He tied the suspender in the case around his left arm and deftly found the vein located just in front of his elbow. Laying back on his bed and ignoring the book under his shoulder, he tugged the suspender off his arm and kicked the tin back underneath his bed to ensure that no one would be able to stumble upon it.

When the drug entered his system, the release from the day's stresses felt instantaneous and glorious—like pure silk sliding along his mind after it being brutally scrubbed raw using a shoe brush.

Holmes starred up at the ceiling, watching the setting sun catch the various prisms and pieces of coloured glass that hung at different lengths of string from one experiment or another. The light fluxed and twinkled, patches colliding and separating in patterns yet randomly as their strings were gently caressed by the breeze being brought in by the crack in the sitting room window that he had placed there for that sole purpose. Among other things.

Dark red flecks were marring the pale white of the ceiling like Watson's face after the explosion at the docks all those years ago. He had only glimpsed at his doctor's mangled form among the bricks before the Constable had dragged him away from the scene for his own safety. But now, when he sasw the light streak through the blood red glass he was reminded of why it might have been better if he had remained hidden after his death flight from the Reichenbach Falls. He had been greedy enough and Watson had wanted a family.

And judging by the renewed wailing from the downstairs kitchen, even one child was far too much for the doctor to handle. With the peace stolen back that Holmes had ferreted away, the detective sluggishly reached into his waistcoat and pulled out his pocket watch, only to discover that an hour and a half had elapsed since he had lain down. More time that he had expected to remain undisturbed with a screaming infant and what he could imagine to be an equally frazzled Watson, but less time than this body had wanted.

He had been following a serial arsonist for the last fifteen days who was targeting both dock and ship workers who had been to the _Sweetest Molly Brothel _on Cockle Street near on the docks between the dates of February 18 and March 12 of this year. The arsonist was smart, they never left behind any evidence that would point to where the perpetrator lived or who it was, only clues as to where the next victim lived. And the fires always burned hot and fast, incinerating any devices that would have aided in the starting of the fires. In short, a most difficult case.

With six fires this week and thirteen overall, Lestrande was breathing down his neck and coming to Baker Street at least twice a day to pressure him into finding something so he could have all the newspaper print that the police was working hard to find this serial arsonist. Not that it mattered truthfully, this killer had been clever in picking victims who no one would care if they were missing, and therefore no one but landladies cared about catching this murder. Other than Holmes. But for him it was more a matter of pride.

And so Holmes, desperate for the doctor, had offered his flat while the Watson home was undergoing renovations in exchange for Watson's experience and help with the case. At this point though he was sure that he would rather undergo help from those imbeciles from Scotland Yard then deal with the screams from, his sitting room?

His still semi-drugged state had not allowed him to realize that the noise had sounded louder than before because the source was closer, he quickly double checked the setting sun to ensure that his time lost remained the same. It was. The drug mixture had only addled his judgement of noise and depth perception. Straightening his clothes slightly as to not allow Watson to know he had been at the needle again, he would have yelled at him and not helped him with the case even though it was most interesting, he opened the door to the sitting room to the strange sight in front of him.

Watson was pacing the outline of the tiger rug in deference to his friend's habit of laying on it randomly and held snuggly in his right arm, pressed against his chest, was a bundle of blankets while in his left he was gesturing with a stuffed toy. Upon Holmes' entrance, he glanced up but never stopped moving or shaking the toy that he noted was a white cat.

"Holmes," began the doctor, "I know that you dislike children and," he continued, over riding the protesting younger man, "you have made this point quite clear on several occasions but we have tried every other known way to calm Eleanor down. And-"

"None of them are working, yes. I had deduced that one for myself since the ladies had banished you up here so they could finish their strawberry and vanilla cake in peace. Really Watson, they didn't let you finish your piece? You should fight back more often or soon you shall be skinnier than me. You must eat now before Nanny teaches your woman to poison all the food."

A bemused look stole across the doctor's face as Holmes made his way to his desk and shuffled through the drawers in search of something that he had placed there not long ago.

"As the only Uncle of the child in London, I assume that it would only be given the child when she was happy and that I would have the pleasure of spoiling her with chemistry sets but now it becomes apparent that she will come here when all else fails at the home of the Watson's. It seems that all cases of that nature end up here. Ah found it!" He strode across the floor ignoring the 'dead' Gladstone laying by the window to where Watsons stood by the tiger's long useless head.

"It's only because you enjoy the challenge old boy," Watson yelled to be heard over the screams of the five month old infant.

The moment the child was secure in the consulting detective's arms, her screams gave way to giggles that tapered off to a smile then slowly her eyes drooped off into slumber. All within a minutes of being handed to the most eccentrentic and active adult in London proper.

Two pairs of feet came racing up the stairs, Nanny and Mary Holmes noted, and burst unannounced into his sitting room to stare at the un expected pair.

It was Mary who found her voice first. "When she stopped so suddenly I was worried that you had done something to her, given her one of your foul drugs, but John does not appear to be angry with you so…How on Earth did you manage to get her to sleep? We have been trying for quite some time, but nothing seems to have worked."

The bemused uncle smiled down at his niece and simply remark, "As Watson should have known by now, look for the most unlikely solution and then try it. She has been held by you many times before so perhaps it is something about my heartbeat that reminds her of how yours sounded while you were carrying her. Might be faster than what yours is now. It appears that I did not require finding my mother necklace, children love to grab shiny things they should not play with. No matter.

Now, Watson, since the issue of the screaming infant has been solved, I request that we now work on my case. We can just hand the child back to her mother and we men can do what we had promised." At this, he began to hand the infant back into Mary's welcoming arms only to find that the child started to wake up and set her mouth in a foreshadowing moue. Thinking quickly, he grimacingly cradled the baby back to his chest to find that the forming frown stopped instantaneously. The troublesome tyke curled even closer to Holmes chest and let out a soft meow of contentment.

Watson began to let out a barrel of a laugh at the predicament that the world's only consulting detective found himself in, but Holmes, in order to ensure the good doctor's aide with the case, held the child for the rest of the evening up to the moment when the Watson family stepped into the carriage.

**A/N: **Well, this has certainly been an adventure to write, and I don't plan on publishing anything tomorrow because of the length of this story. I did set out with the plan of each one-shot being more than 700 words, but this one is over double that without the addition of the author's note. I blame Holmes's drug addled mind being far to fun to write. Until we meet again.


	7. Suo Gan

The Troublesome Trio

Chapter Seven

Max- age four years

"Sleep, my baby, on my Bosom,

Warm and cozy will it prove;

Round thee father's arms are folding,

In my heart a father's love.

There shall no one come to harm thee,

Naught shall ever break they rest;

Sleep, my darling babe in quiet,

Sleep on father's gentle breast."

Holmes peered around the corner to sneak a glance at what the Watson family was doing. He had been awoken approximately five minutes ago by a high pitch scream which was promptly followed by loud sobbing that could only come from one source in this flat. Watson seemed to have the same thought process, not a hard one to have, and had thundered into his daughters room before the echoes from the first scream had died away. The doctor was obviously concerned that his daughter was being kidnapped to be held hostage, a valid concern given their line of work. The pair of them at helped Scotland Yard put sixteen criminals master minds behind bars since Max's forth birthday this October 21st and it was only March.

The doctor was sitting on Max's bed smoothing the worn quilt that her maternal grandmother had made back over her and the doll that was fiercely clutched in her embrace. Giving her a quick kiss on the forehead, the doctor turned the lamp next to the child's bedside down to an ember before joining Holmes in the hallway, leaving the door completely open; in case of more screaming, Holmes deduced.

"Another nightmare," Watson began without prompting. "That will make the third one this week. God Holmes, I don't know what to do. We both know London is not safe, and I won't lie to her about that. She has to be prepared."

"All too right. Though I do have a suggestion to this problem, one that I am surprised that you have not seen earlier, though I suppose old age and sleepless nights have addled your mind some," Holmes whispered back as he led the older man back down the stairs and into the sitting room where they could be assured they would not reawaken Max. Sitting down in his favourite chair, he lit the pipe that he had placed there before going to bed—one was never certain when genius was going to strike and need a smoke. Letting out a puff and giving his comrade a knowing look, he waited for him to figure out where this thought process was going.

It only took a minute or two. "You," sputtered the father, "want to teach my daughter how to fight?"

Lauching himself up from the chair, Holmes smiled, "Yes, it will give her the courage to believe that given the correct circumstances she could protect herself. I am hardly suggesting we start at any point soon. Just put the idea in her mind, and her subconscious will allow her to fight the demons in her dreams."

Dr Watson shook his head distractly before making his way toward the door, "I am not having this conversation tonight, maybe in the morning when I have had a proper cuppa and have not heard my daughter screaming." He was almost out the door before Holmes stopped him.

"One quick question, on a different matter entirely. That song, you were singing. Where did it come from? I do not often hear lullabies among the company I keep, but I still have never heard that particular one."

"Mary's grandmother, on her mother's side, was Welsh. She sang it to Mary's mother in Welsh and she translated it into English when then moved to London and then she sang it to Mary. I just wanted to pass the tradition along, but I had to change a few words. I would sing it _in_ Welsh, but Mary's mother is long dead and I don't know anyone who speaks that particular language. Goodnight Holmes." And with that he walked back upstairs to his room, leaving the detective alone.

Later that night when his shoulder ached from the change in barometric pressure, he heard the sound of Holmes playing the violin faintly next door. Pulling on his dressing gown, he crept silently over to Max's open door.

Holmes was obviously in one of his mood where he would be unable to sleep for days, and so took it upon himself to sit in the old rocking chair in the corner of the room and play the Welsh lullaby over and over again as theories revolved in his head. Watson crept back into his bed, happy in the knowledge that his daughter would sleep soundly through the night.

**A/N:** This lullaby is called Suo Gan and truly is a Welsh lullaby that started to appear in song collections around the 1820s by some references. I don't know where Mary would have been from, but they did not provide that information in the movies. And this is fanfiction, I am allowed to make this information up.


	8. Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte

The Troublesome Trio

Chapter Eight

Max-age six

Peaceful days at 221B Backer Street were becoming steadily scarce now that the good doctor had moved back in after his wife and still born child had passed away, with his little puckish daughter in tow. Where once experiments and stacks of old newspapers littered the sitting room, now dolls were snuck into corners and brightly illustrated picture books cluttered the coffee table. In short, it was hard to deny the truth that a small girl lived here. But who required material evidence when all one needed to do was to listen for the sound of pounding footsteps and ceaseless questions.

If any of the chap of Scotland Yard had asked Holmes seven years ago if he wanted to help his partner bring up a child he would have vehemently responded no and then proceeded to inquire about their mental health and if they had been recently experimenting with drugs. Now he would have responded with yes in less than a heartbeat.

'Uncle Sherlock, Nanny and I were wondering if you'd like to come and bake a cake with us. We're gonna make your favourite kind, well at least it was your favourite last week but Papa says you change your mind to much and that you are really just a girl. I wouldna mind if you were a girl Uncle Sherlock.' Max had once again forgone any ideas of acting like the young lady she was to once become, and had taken to following her cohorts habits of charging up the stairs like a loose bull. It was easy to deduce where Max had been previously, even if she had not announced it. She was not wearing her apron, but there was an outline of flour on her pale green dress of where it had been before she had taken it off and then brushed off some of the flour as she made her way up to their rooms. Her hands smell faintly of vanilla from where she over measured for the cake and now refused to wash the residue off. There was a spot of raspberry preserve on her left shoulder from where she had twisted open the jar and then wiped the mess she had gotten onto her hand, onto her dress so that Nanny would not force her to wash her hands once more. And there in the corner of her mouth was a smidgeon of dark chocolate, the type that was only used in cooking. In short, she had been helping Nanny make a Black Forest Cake for dinner since it was the one year anniversary of Dr Watson moving back in. It also meant that they were celebrating the one year anniversary of the return of the crime solving duo as Lestrange coined them. And that would be worth celebrating.

And so when Max bounded over to Holmes sitting at the table reading the news with as much grace as a three-legged chicken, the detective just smiled. Let the father worry about correcting her grammar and her etiquette, he was going to be the fun Uncle who enjoyed blowing things up.

'So Uncle, will you join us? Pretty Please!' Max gazed up at him through her eyelashes and pushed her bottom lip out in an attempt to coerce him. Not necessary.

Putting aside the newspaper for when she would be asleep tonight, Holmes stood up, stretching his arms wide up to the ceiling in order to work out a frustrating kink in his lower back that came from one too many nights spent finding his next case. But that could wait.

'In order to ensure that Nanny does not blow up the kitchen, thereby destroying this house, I feel that you and I should oversee the rest of the preparation of the Black Forest Cake. And you are correct. They are, and shall remain to be, my favourite cake of all time. Now, off to the kitchen we go young lady, to fight off dragons and evil witches who might threaten to broil you in an oven in order to consume you later for tea.'

And then Holmes swooped down and grabbed the giggling child round the middle and heaved her over his right shoulder like a sailor carrying his sack. Keeping his right arm tightly wrapped around his precious cargo, he lightly ran his fingers along the backs of his niece's legs, applying enough pressure to elicit a slight giggle and squirm as they made their way to the stairs.

'I hope you have realized by now Max, that your continued friendship with the Irregulars will not be allowed if you grammar is continually horribly influenced. Your father has been quite adamant about that.'

'I don't speak like that around him, silly! Just when it's us partners. Now come on, we got us a cake to make. Nanny's gonna be mad if we aren't there soon.'

**A/N**: This chapter is dedicated to **FutureNovelist887**, whose review really made me want to sit down and just write something, regardless of everything else that needed to be done. I blame the BBC series Sherlock for the lack of updates, I love the modern feel of the Sherlock Holmes story line and I love the fan base already in place. I open the floor to any suggestions and prompts that my readers have. Send me a message or leave me a review. Cheers.


	9. Frightful Weather

The Troublesome Trio

Chapter Nine

Max- age five

Dr Watson had been called away to the home of Jason Crowley to confirm a case of whooping cough, leaving Holmes in charge of the care of the five year of Max. Not that this scene was at all a novel one—since Mary's passing it had become his task to care for his partner in crime when the father was called away on medical business. However, with the change in living situations, the frequency of these events were increasing.

Once upon a time, Watson had been so distraught in is perpetual grief that he could not bear to leave his child's side more than once a week. He appeared to have a sudden increase of patients at the surgery this last fortnight, for he had only been home for breakfasts and dinners ten of those days. This was, in Holmes's mind, the perfect scenario.

Left to their own devices, the pair was content to amble about the parts of London that would make even a gambling Army doctor blush. Holmes was well aware that if his flatmate was to even learn of their adventures that he would be beyond furious and promptly move out of 221B Baker Street. Evidence pointed to him moving out of London entirely to protect his daughter from the perceived threat to his only surviving child.

Did the good doctor have so little faith in him? Did he truly believe that Holmes would expose his only niece to any danger that might harm her? On their walks, he constantly ensured that they held hands, only followed adulteress or gamblers, stayed in parts of the city where London's finest patrolled, and never went near the docks. Honestly, she was in more danger in the hospitals that her father occasionally insisted that she come to in order to bring cheer to the elderly who were without family.

The detective thoroughly loved strolling with the young child pulling him behind to marvel at the bright colours and smells along with her. She let him see the world as a simpler and far more wonderful place. He could ignore everything about the shopkeeper's wife and the state of their marriage and only focus on the bright piece of ribbon Max was fawning over. And for remembrance of those little moments, he often bought the small of the gimcrack that she desired.

But those wonderful plans were not for today, mused Holmes as he pulled the curtain back from one of the windows in the main sitting room. Yesterday night there had been a faint nip in the air as he had jaunted back from the pub with Watson's and his boxing winnings. And presently a delicate pattern of frosty lace had crept across the pane of glass, signally that Jack Frost had arrived fashionably early this year. Under normal circumstances, he would have required Max to wear warmer clothing or even more layers as suitable protection against the elements. But he had detected a slight change increase in moodiness and aggression, a disposition to sleep but seemed to fall asleep quite quickly, and a decrease in appetite. He doubted that Watson had realized the signs yet; probable with him being called away so frequently to care for other sick children, but his was well on the way to being sick herself. And aggravating it was something he did not was to be responsible for.

Casting his eyes about the sitting room, he formulated plans as readily as he dismissed them in the quest for finding something to amuse his niece. The uncle knew that scientific lectures or experiments would not be appreciated in her current condition, but rather something that would ensure her to wear plenty of layers and maintain the proper body heat. But allow her mind to be properly exercised.

Frantic now that he could hear the tell-tale noises of a young girl getting out of bed, Holmes strode over to his bookshelf and began to scan the titles in order to find something of note. A recent book by the voyage of George DeLong and the USS_ Jeanette_ and their doomed quest to find the North Pole attracted his attention. With the mercury slowly dropping, Holmes rationalized that it would not be difficult to convince a small child to listen to a story about the coldest know point on Earth. Snatching the memoir from the bookshelf, he turned to face the open door way with a smile firmly planted on his face.

'Good morning, Max. I had wondered when you might join me this morning,' he spun as the aforementioned child entered the room and settled down at the table, half-heartedly nibbling at some toast left from her father's breakfast an hour ago. 'I recently acquired a novel about a journey to the North Pole, or rather an attempt to reach the North Pole, they never made it. But they encounter some truly amazing creatures along the way. However, I do not believe some of the imagery this author is using. I had hoped we could act out some of the scenes together…'

Upon his arrival home, the first thought that passes through Watson's head is that it is too quiet, and that the place appears to be too clean to have contained Max and Holmes for an entire day. At least he hopes that it has. It began snowing at some point around midmorning and he hopes Holmes had more sense than to drag Ella through all this snow with this outbreak of whooping cough. Making his way cautiously upstairs, he is met outside the sitting room by a Holmes who is wearing a most peculiarly set of accoutrements. The detective seems to be prepared to weather the worst of any blizzard London might experience, and yet has a white sheepskin over his shoulders and tucked under his suspenders to hold it in place. He looks, by far, the most ridiculous that he ever has.

'What on Earth are you doing Holmes? Where did you find that skin, and better question, why are you wearing it like a cape or robe? And how many scarves do you have on exactly? '

'In order to prevent your daughter from going outside today into the dreadful weather, we pretended to journey up to the North Pole and wrestle with polar bears, hence the sheepskin. Your daughter was kind enough to protect her dolly from the ferocious me. But I would not go in there quiet yet, as Max has not yet reach a deep enough sleep to be moved successfully.'

Watson peered into the room and saw that a fort of blankets had been constructed to resemble a native's hut around the desk near the fire place where a pot of water had been left to simmer. Curled up upon blankets in the entrance of the tent was his daughter in even more scarves, hats, and jumpers than Holmes—and most of them were the detectives.

'She's has caught something mild, the whooping cough by the sound of the cough. But nothing sever. I had hoped to sweat it out by keeping her near the fire in as many jumpers as she could stand, and equally as much tea. But it has only diluted the severity of the cough. I did slip into her tea a few drops of the serum labelled _Max's Cough Syrup_, honestly could you hide it somewhere but in your dresser. I am grateful you did not take it with you…'

'And I am grateful for what you have done,' the father cut Holmes's rambling off with a smile as he started to fold the assorted blankets back up to be put away. 'I had been so busy recently; I had not realized that Ella had also contracted the disease. It could have been far worse, but with a few days of syrup and bed rest, she should be fine. Thank you, brother.'

And Holmes crossed the floor to clasp his hands over the doctors shaking hands as they tried to fold a discarded scarf. 'Think nothing of it, my brother.'

A/N: George DeLong lead a US expedition from 1879 to 1881 but tragically their ship, the USS _Jeanette_ was crushed in the ice, killing most of the crew, including DeLong. I read that the movie was set in 1891, so I decided that Max was born on October 21, 1893. This gives me a wonder way to start adding in historical points to the story. Not that I have not already been trying.

I apologise for the wait, but anyone who has ever been in college should be able to fully understand what a Life Science degree means for my course load.


	10. Despairing in Purple

The Troublesome Trio

Chapter Ten

Max – age three

A/N: Not my usual happiness, instead I have decided to tackle the emotional obstacle that is Watson after Mary's death.

Purple iris.

He knew that he would never be able to look at purple iris again with the same enjoyment and pleasure as before. They had graced his wife's bouquet on their wedding day, and their fragrance had been the first thing that Ella had breathed in.

It was supposed to be what their second born child was supposed to breath in first.

Instead Mary breathed in the scent of purple iris as she died.

The light was refracting through the cut glass vase holding the hated flowers, casting flecks of light to sparkle around the room. Mary would have enjoyed the sight. And Ella, if Ella was here she would have pranced about the room, tapping all those within her reach and begging Papa to help her touch the rest of them. Mary would have been exhausted from her efforts at birthing their son, but she would have laughed gaily.

Their Son.

Watson would have been a father twice over had their son survived the birth. Would have had a son to pass along the family surgery to, if that was what the son desired. They could have enjoyed fishing in the countryside or games of cricket with other retired army chaps, or even gents that he knew from the Yard. He loved Ella dearly and with all his heart, but there are some things one just simply cannot do with a young lady.

But none of that truly matter now. He is sitting alone in a room at St. St Bartholomew's with two figures hidden beneath shrouds of pristine white cloth, waiting for him to say hi final goodbyes.

But how can he say goodbye? Mary, sweet golden Mary who had been his saving grace. Who had understood from her arrival in his existence that he was irrevocably attached to Holmes for the rest of his life? And she had little problem with the arrangement, so long as he returned home in time for supper. What other wife would be waiting at the door with hot towel and pipe, eagerly awaiting to hear his latest adventure? She was everything to him. His sun, moon, heavens, and stars a bright. How could he find his way out of the ever growing gloom without his North Star guiding him homeward? Without his albatross leading him back to shore? Without his map showing him the path laid out underneath his feet?

How could he live without his Mary?

And so, deep in his grief, Watson fell against the wall that he had been leaning on to avoid going near the covered figures. And as the sobs began to rack his body, he slowly slid down the wall to sit down upon the floor, with his bad leg fully extended in front of him. This reality could not be real. Not his Mary. Not his Isaac.

Uncountable moments later, but not long enough for him to lose himself to the hole that seemed to be tearing into his chest, there were hands on his shoulders, awkwardly embracing him. He did not care whom the hands belonged to; as long as he was allowed to remain alone in his grief, those hands could shave his hair for all he cared. It truly did not matter.

The hands began to move to slide about his person in a quick physical exam. The reason why escaped his mind for the moment. His health no longer mattered. Mary was gone. The reason for his waking up in the morning was lying dead no more than six paces away from him and there was not a damned thing that he could do about it. Tears that he believed were spent began to fall again.

'Come now, old boy, you really must be pulling yourself together. You may have recently lost Mary and your unborn child, but my Watson, please remember, you have another child.' The hands forcefully cupped his face, making him gaze into the other man's worried brown eyes. 'Your Eleanor,' the other man began again, 'your little Ella who loves to ask questions about why the sky is blue and why things go boom is at home. And she wants her father.'

His eyes began to drift back down as he thought about his little Ella, his little girl who was so much like his love that even to think of her face hurt. Would he be able to stare into that face and not see his dead wife's face starring back at him?

The man gave him a sharp slap across his left cheek that strung even as he grasps it again. 'WATSON! She has already lost her Mother and her brother this evening. Don't make her lose her father. Don't make her lose her only other piece to a normal family. Now, you will come home with me. And you shall embrace your daughter and together you will begin to grieve. And at some point you will be allowed to move back into your apartment, but for now Baker Street is where you will be. Have I made myself clear?'

The other man has made himself crystal clear, as clear as the vase with those damned flowers that he hopes to never see again in his life for all eternity. He will go home and see his Ella, because that is what Mary would have wanted him to do. He will live to fulfil Mary's unspoken desires. And so he allows himself to be dragged from his resting place upon the floor and his coat placed upon him and tugged back out the door. And led back home.

A/N: I have successfully, mentally, destroyed one of my favourite literary and cinematic characters. Wonderful for it only being a Thursday. I hoped to capture the hopelessness that Watson would have felt to have his one piece of rational life torn from him so cruelly because of something so normal—childbirth complications. If you spot any mistakes please let me know, but I feel good about getting this out so soon after the last chapter.


	11. Roses are Red

The Troublesome Trio

Chapter 11

Max- age two years old

'Mrs Hudson, you are looking as lovely as usual. I hope we are not intruding on any plans; I had made plans with Holmes to care for Ella, but I don't know if he ever informed you of those plans. We both know how he can be.' Watson strode in from the bright Spring day into the foyer of 221B Baker Street with his daughter still waking up in his arms and greeted the sweet landlady who seemed to weather any storm with the staunchness that would rival that of a general. The lady-general merely gathered up his coat and hat and placed them upon the appropriate pegs before turning to face the good doctor whom she had the most respect for.

'He had the decency to mention that you might be calling this afternoon, which is more than I should expect from him. But a time would be appreciated. Might be seen as a normal thing to give, not that anything that comes from Mr Holmes's rooms is ever quite right. Though he has kept it down to a bare minimum this week.' She saddled up close to Watson and Ella, and dropped his voice down a few levels to avoid being overheard by the household detective. 'I do believe he has been looking forward to little Ella's visit today. I saw a hint of something violet in there when I brought him his breakfast.' And with that hint of knowledge, the landlady gave the Watsons a slight nod and strode briskly back to her domain in the kitchen where she felt most comfortable, leaving the pair to climb the staircase and brave the storm together.

And Brave the Storm they did.

The door remained as unsuspecting as ever, which did not clue in Watson to what awaited them behind the door. What did alert him to something lurking behind the study door was the lack of noise; usually there was some sort of noise, be it frantic violin music or opera or foreign tracks of some interest to the detective. But at the moment it was completely silent.

Watson gave Ella a gentle shake to awaken her completely and to ensure that she would not be frightened from what should ever appear from the door. The little angel yawned and rubbed the sleep from her eyes before glancing about her surroundings, trying to determine where she was. Excitement glittered in her eyes as she recognized the hallway and door to be the home of her favourite uncle in London.

'Papa, where's Unc' Sher! Wanna play!' The little bundle of light green cotton began to wiggle in her father's arms as she looked for her third favourite person in the world.

'Alright Ella, let us see what your Uncle has done this time.' And, bracing himself for the worst, opened the door to the rooms that he once lived in.

The horrendously strung lines of purple and pink tissue with red hearts that hung over the fireplace clashed with the general masculinity of the mess. But the carefully designed card that read 'Happy Late Valentine's Day' drew the entire scene together. The man sitting behind the card was just as carefully groomed with a starched collar folded over a scarlet red vest that matched the décor of the room. Holmes smiled at the pair.

'It seems that I missed this most important occasion for females due to my last case, and I find that, given my available time with Max, today will be a most agreeable time to celebrate it. Max will not realize that will are enjoying the festivities late, only that we are enjoying them. So!' At this Holmes leaped to his feet, bound over to the stunned Watson, and grabbed his niece from the still arms. He then shooed the grown man from the room before facing the giggling girl.

'Now, shall we try Nanny's cookies or cake first?'

A/N: I blaim college in all its devious forms for the total lack of updates to this. However, since I will be home for a little bit, I should be able to produce a few chapters. Here's to my heroes, my best friends. You know why and who you are.


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